andrea lianne grabowski

andrea lianne grabowski is a midwestern lesbian occupying Anishinaabe land. her work lives in fifth wheel press, manywor(l)ds, Scavengers, and many other homes, including the self-published chapbook there is an earth after innocence. she is a Pushcart and Best of the Net nominee and former NMC Mag editor. you can find her on long drives being inspired by music, or peering in the windows of abandoned buildings. 

Easy read of the poems in the images above:

self as shock absorber

good dishwasher, soapsuds releasing

releasing tension, tension always held

held and squeezing out all the water until nothing left

left nothing inside myself, running on threads

threads to hang from, climbing back up

up towards where the stakes are underground

underground seeds patient

patient as i am not, patient as time

time as i am learning to let go

go up and down the county lines

lines in my shaking hands

hands learning to close

close the door on thunderstorms

storms shaking apart sleep

sleep shredding the gauze of me

me, opening my hands

hands eager for wants, ideas,

ideas or boundaries against obligation

obligation, agency, choice

choice to take a bath

bath absorbing disregulation

disregulation absorbing the sun

sun shocking my eyes

eyes downcast away from electricity

electricity of every living thing, my body

my body is porous

porous and i don’t remember

remember prevention, but reaching

reaching for sleeping storms, cleansed

cleansed into soft animal, sensitive

sensitive to every sound

sound of stimulation

stimulation vs. teakettle sediment

sediment i drag around in my nervous system

systems to resist, rest.

the line "the electricity of every living thing" is borrowed from the title of a book by Katherine May.

spring body poem

i snap off a tiny red spot below my lower lip

i trim delicate tops of onion seedlings to keep them from slumping over

my lip stings

i slump over

my hands—trimming the onions—delicate hands small and cracked between the fingers—

woke me screaming for calendula in the middle of the night

i crack my neck gazing up at the stars

burn my lungs trying to gift myself a maple syrup revelation

delicate hands clumsy with rolling papers, tender with dried flowers, frozen on the lighter

i cough up anger and spit out being left out

digital self-medication is a responsibility that does not belong to anyone else

my hands are connection my heart is autonomy

when can it be the other way around?

my body changes at the county line

learns to stride the scissors across linen as wide as my walk

wide as my boots on the two-track

i weaned my tongue off melatonin for some godforsaken reason

when sleep loosens on me i wake with a constricted throat

therefore when i don’t eat enough my hip bones are characters of their own

in an old stageplay about survivable longing

i flinch a little at the word woman but use it

like a finely carved wooden spoon in the kitchen

i believe my hip bones could be [ ] when i listen to chappell roan

i know i need a super tender ultra [ ] [ ] like me

but when it is silent i curl in on myself

my glasses of water taste a bit metallic in effort to resist

how dizzy i become when i stand up

my autonomic nervous system goes to my head

my functionality is dehydrated and i lend a dismissive ear to the consequences

i see stars without even cracking my neck

but i say it’s survivable like all the longing

how true is that, really?

a diagnosis only goes so far

i tremble

i double-fist mugs of coffee and tea made from roasted dandelion root with chicory

i check oat milk labels for gluten-free certification but doubt

that the wheat-dusted machines are out to get my gut

i’m sensitive but not that much

i’m verging on worse

girl with high arches and heavy boots

sheet intrusion preserving a record of geologic fissures

delicately carved wooden stirring spoons don’t break easily

they are considered threats when quiet and when loud

especially when intertwined with other wooden stirring spoons

i hold sewing pins between my front teeth

the onion sprout tops are like pins, their tiny round black seed casings

clinging to the tops as pin heads in right relationship with the soil

i eat them, hoping they’ll go to my head

while september is still green

after “The Route of the Petal Apparent” by Christine Kwon

i kneel in front of a mushroom called deceiver.

i kneel in front of carolina horse nettle and common soapwort.

i fail to split wood.

my father fails to put his arm in his sweater and i cry.

i am chilled.

my face is too warm.

i soak a chicory-blue washcloth in the water jug’s cold drips and press it to my cheeks.

i am somatic symptoms.

i am the lace pinned to the rafters; sagging.

i am caught in the doom-scroll and the self-deprecation.

i thank the fire.

the fire lights.

i promise the fire to build a relationship with it like i am building

a relationship with dandelion roots.

the fire devours the co-op sales newsletter.

once there were spinsters who built fires every day of the cold seasons,

who only crossed paths with the evils of industry when they had to.

there are squirrels dancing across the metal roof.

i do not have the magic, the misfortune, of only knowing how to write by ink and paper.

my keyboard and my audiobooks; these are my lifeblood.

i swipe my credit card at the country store on US31.

i could learn to spin wool.

i shred cheddar and fold it into tortillas on the camp stove, boil water for the dishes.

i watch the molten coals, the flames.

my mother has lost her partner for life, but he is still breathing heavily.

he never taught me to split wood.

here is a green flame.